


Fancy a Cup of Tea, Love?

by shuushuu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Based on Real Events, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, boston tea party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuushuu/pseuds/shuushuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical Fic — Alfred F. Jones witnesses a small brawl on a Sunday morning on his way to Patrick Henry’s house. He informs his comrade, who calms him with word of the next step in the fight for independence. Tea, anyone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fancy a Cup of Tea, Love?

_“Yankee Doodle came to town_   
_A-riding on a pony,_   
_He stuck a feather in his heat_   
_And called it macaroni!_   
_Yankee Doodle keep it up,_   
_Yankee Doodle Dandy,_   
_Mind the music and the step_   
_And with the girls be handy!”_

Commotion and slurred singing was heard Sunday morning, just after the church bells settled after signaling the beginning of the masses. Laughter and more insults thrown at the colonists and their religious practices, causing Alfred F. Jones, a red-blooded Patriot unto his death, to flinch, and his fists to clench in an uncomfortable fashion. Well, it was either keep quiet or inform the Continental Congress about this, or to throw his own venomous words back at them. But everyone in the makeshift government operating right under George’s nose taught him better.

The impact of fist against nose broke his calming façade, causing him to guide his attention elsewhere and not to the plans of revolting that the American body as a whole had decided on.

A man around his mid-twenties straightened his back from leaning forward, pulling his fist away with scarlet dripping from the intoxicated private’s nose. The off-duty British soldier hastily covered his face, his eyes wide with shock and a white fury that was common in the New England area – more specifically, Boston.  The other soldiers that were shouting the mocking “Yankee Doodle” tune previously were full-aware now of what had happened to their comrade that was now throwing out profanity towards the daring American.

Alfred’s vision darted towards the road he was walking on, away from the small brawl that was blooming and continued down the street towards his destination – Patrick Henry’s residence.

“There was a small brawl down the way,” Alfred told his comrade, glancing up from his untouched liquor. “One of our patriots threw a fist at a Bloodyback for singing ‘Yankee Doodle’ around the church.” His voice echoed in the farmhouse that Patrick and his spouse, Sarah, were occupying, dimming down to a tense nothingness.

Clicks of a tongue against a roof of a mouth were heard a few seconds later, Patrick seen shaking his head as his wife set down another bottle of porter, switching it out for the empty one that was on the wooden table, the contents inside settling inside the older-looking gentleman’s stomach.

“If they keep doing reckless things like this, the King would send out more troops to tame what’s already untamable,” he muttered, taking a swig of his beverage.

“We can’t do anything drastic until it’s the right time,” Alfred pressed, leaning forward earnestly, worry in his eyes. Everything has to be perfect about this plan, he told himself. “We can’t have anyone do anything out of proportion-”

“I know, Jones,” Patrick cut in calmly, holding up a hand to cut off his slightly hysterical guest. “We’ll think of something soon, I promise. I’ll take hold of Washington and converse with him on what measures we should take.”

Something on the nation’s face told Patrick that he wasn’t sold completely on his reassurance, but he stayed quiet as he took another drink of his alcohol, seeing the other do the same for the first time that night.

“ _BOSTON HARBOR’S A TEAPOT, TONIGHT_!”

Men of all ages ran through the streets out of an abandoned building, leather and rubber boots colliding with the pebbled roads of Boston towards a blacksmith shop that held all the equipment needed for this.

First a massacre as kindly illustrated by Paul Revere and noted by Samuel Adams, then the East India Company sending three ships with tea that the  _Patriots didn’t want_. The captain, British and stubborn as they all were, decided to let the ships dock at the harbor for two weeks now. So, naturally, since Britain didn’t get the memoir, the Sons of Liberty suggested to rid the contents of the ships or the ships themselves. During the meeting, someone had suggested that getting rid of the ships would cause too much of a commotion, so they might as well toss one of Britain’s most prized possessions to the waters – tea.

Alfred stabbed his index and middle finger into a jar of chimney soot, pulling it out and smearing it under his eyes to mimic a Mohawk Indian. A few minutes later, scarlet paint joined the black, feathers plucked from swans and washed in the harbor were tucked into his hair, and a blanket from his home was wrapped around his waist in the style of a Native’s. One of the participants in this revolt tossed him an axe disguised as a hatchet before Alfred began to lead the trusted Sons of Liberty to the Dartmouth, Eleanor, and Beaver – the ships docked, sent by the East India Company for Britain.

On the dock of the ships, Alfred turned around and told the two-hundred men, “We only dump out the tea. We don’t dump out anything else, we don’t steal the tea, we don’t make a mess. This is a dignified, mature matter, and if it isn’t taken seriously, you will be punished.” Fire was in his eyes, causing all the chatter in the back to silence as their leader’s threat hung in the air. “ _Am I clear_?”

“AYE!” everyone shouted in reply, raising their axes and clubs vigorously into the air in confirmation. Alfred proceeded to hop aboard the Dartmouth, a third of the group splitting up and following him, the others splitting between the Eleanor and Beaver. The blue-eyed leader found his way to the captain’s quarters, passing the sailors on the ship and calmly telling them to not get in his and the others’ way, before telling the British captain the same and elaborating how he and his men weren’t going to hurt them unless necessary. Wide-eyed, the captain nodded and Alfred joined the others, hoisting the crates from below deck and assaulting the wood before tossing them into the Boston Harbor.

After all 342 chests were emptied, the decks swept clean of any mess they made, the men opened their coats to reveal that they didn’t covet any of the leaves, Arthur expecting them. But, the man Alfred had seen while he was heading over to Patrick Henry’s house had tea leaves stuffed into the lining of his coats.

“What did I tell you?” Alfred snarled, his hand snapping out and dragging the man by his coat closer until they were chest to chest. When the man didn’t reply, his eyes wide with unhidden fear, the leader shouted, “ _WHAT DID I TELL YOU_?”

“To dump out the tea, not make a mess, and don’t steal the tea,” the man mumbled quickly, his words slurring together.

“Exactly,” the nation repeated collectedly, “and what did you do?”

The other was quiet.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I stole the tea!” he shouted back, hysteria laced into his terrorized voice.

Alfred stepped back, sighing before tossing the man aside to the closest Liberty Boys he could find. The leader of them began walking down the ramp that helped them onto the boat, calling over his shoulder, “You three – stay behind and teach him a lesson. The others, drinks on me!”

The crowd cheered, the tense atmosphere their leader had created all but gone with three words. A fife was playing in the background, men singing in the loudest voice imaginable, “Rally Mohawks! Bring out your axes. Let’s tell King George we’ll pay no taxes on his foreign tea!”

From the room he was staying in, Admiral John Montague sat in his seat, hiding feelings of horror for what he had witnessed the Patriots do. He stood there, aghast, drinking in the scene that unfolded before his very eyes. Eyes still wide, he recollected himself and threw open the window, shouting into the cold, December night, “Well, boys, you have had a fine, pleasant evening for your Indian caper—haven’t you? But mind, you’ve got to pay the fiddler yet!”

“Oh, never mind,” the man behind Alfred called back as they marched in the streets to the local pub. “Never mind, Squire! Just come out here if you please and we’ll settle the bill in two minutes!” A slam of a window and silence from the house answered their offer and the men laughed victoriously, nothing bringing down their high feelings of satisfaction for what they’d done to the damned king’s tea.

“Rally Mohawks! Bring out your axes. Let’s tell King George we’ll pay no taxes on his foreign tea!” Alfred sang, plucking a feather from his hair and using it as a baton to orchestrate the men behind him.

“Rally Mohawks!” the Liberty Boys called back. “Bring out your axes. Let’s tell King George we’ll pay no taxes on his foreign tea!”

Admiral John shook his head from the room he was staying in, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval as he drank his own tea brewed moments ago.


End file.
